On Broken Wings (11 page)

Christine apparently took no notice. She yawned and stretched. "Sounds good. Where to?"

Helen gestured. "That way. I'll be right behind you." As Christine rose and moved off, Helen turned to Louis and murmured, "You'll be all right here by yourself? We could be a while."

He allowed himself to exhale. "Certainly, Ma'am. I noticed your bookshelves on the way in. I'll stay occupied."

She fixed him with a no-nonsense look. "Drop the 'ma'am,' Louis."

"Uh, okay, sure thing."

She smirked and followed Christine down the short hallway to her bedroom.

***

The bathroom attached to Helen's bedroom boasted an oversized Jacuzzi-style tub, quickly filled but large enough for two adults. The warm, lilac-scented water was a blessing after the morning's efforts. In a better world, she'd have a tub in her office.

Within minutes, Christine became a picture of relaxation. Only her head showed above the bubbles from the aerators. Her eyes were closed, and her expression spoke of a state of bliss. Helen smiled to herself.

"Time to neaten up." Christine looked up as Helen took her razor from the accessories rack and sat on the edge of the tub.

Helen noted the younger woman's gaze following the razor as it glided over her legs. She enjoyed shaving. It left her feeling very clean and feminine. When she had rinsed, Christine rose from the water, sat next to her and said, "Show me, please?"

"Why, certainly." She knelt before the younger woman and began to shave her calves. Christine's expression of dreamy contentment returned as Helen labored over her.

Helen had intended only to teach Christine this element of feminine grooming, but Christine's obvious pleasure in her ministrations was too flattering to resist, and she wound up doing the whole task herself. When she had finished Christine's thighs, she paused, then trimmed away the longer hairs at the edges of Christine's pubic mound. A slight shiver ran through the younger woman's frame, but she said nothing.

As Helen rose and turned to put her razor away, Christine said, "You've left a lot of hair there," and pointed down to her mound.

After a pause, Helen said, "You're right, how careless of me," and began to shave Christine's pubic hair away. The young woman closed her eyes again and relaxed completely, occasionally stretching a little in contentment. She began to purr.

If Helen Davenport did not trumpet her bisexuality to the skies, neither did she trouble to conceal it. Yet she had not intended an erotic adventure when she had volunteered to help Louis with this task. Christine was too hurt, and too frightened, for such a thing to have crossed her mind.

Even so, Helen could not mistake the invitation Christine was offering, and the younger woman's shy sweetness was more than she could resist. When she had removed the last of Christine's pubic hair, she clasped the younger woman around the buttocks, and lowered her head to the treasure she had bared.

Christine floated on currents of pleasure. Helen's tongue, probing in the folds of her labia and brushing gently over her clitoris, was the finest thing in all the world. Her hands went to the sides of Helen's head and held it between her thighs, as her new friend demonstrated the difference between an act of degradation and an act of love.

***

Louis had refrained from watching the clock, from pacing, or from pondering the events in the bathroom down the hall, events he had helped to arrange. When the two women returned arm in arm, in identical white terrycloth robes, he noted only how happy they both looked.

"Are we ready to return to the work part of the day, ladies?"

Christine smiled. "Helen has the nicest tub. You'd like it a lot, Louis."

The older woman nodded. "I'm sure you would."

He forbore to comment. "We have shopping left to do. And I think I left my credit card in your office."

"Of course you did. Would I have allowed anything else? Chris, go get dressed and we'll go back to the store. I'll be right in."

The younger woman giggled and ambled back down the hall. Louis pitched his voice low. "Everything all right?"

"Oh my, yes." There was a luminosity to Helen's expression that made Louis's heart surge. "She's awfully sweet, isn't she?"

"She could break any heart in America, scars or no scars."

Her mouth quirked. "She's right, you know. You'd like my tub. And I think I'd like to enjoy it with you some day."

His breath came short. He controlled himself with some effort. "That would be very nice. A rain check, perhaps?"

"Certainly, dear. Limber up your shopping muscles. We have a lot left to do."

***

It was early in the evening when Louis and Christine returned to the house on Alexander Avenue. The truck was weighed down with their purchases, and both of them were as worn out as Albrecht's and Helen Davenport could manage.

Six thousand, one hundred and thirty-seven dollars. Dear God.

They had parted after a flurry of plans and promises, and Louis knew that Christine and Helen would not let him forget them. His finances might have been depleted somewhat, but his luck was running strong.

They unloaded the truck into the living room. It took several trips. As he dropped the last of the packages on his sofa, Louis collapsed into the tiny space left on it and said, "You know, my main fault has always been lack of planning."

Christine was puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Why didn't I empty a closet for you before we went shopping? I knew well enough that we'd need one."

Christine didn't giggle as he'd expected. She regarded him solemnly for a long moment, then dropped to her knees before him and took one of his hands between her own.

"Louis, do you want anything from me? Anything at all?"

She wore the forest green suit, her declared favorite among her new outfits. In the soft light of the evening, her scars stood out as if illuminated from within, creating a vision of loveliness and pain. The effort in her voice made him want to cringe. He leaned forward and brought his hands together to enfold hers.

"No, Chris, I don't want anything from you, except that you become strong and confident and happy. Would you do that for me? Become those things?"

She blinked back tears, nodded once, rose and ran for her bedroom. The slam of her bedroom door shook the house.

Louis took a deep breath and rubbed his temples. He surveyed the room, littered with the trophies of their day. Garment bags and shoe boxes were strewn over every horizontal surface.

"I suppose unpacking can wait for tomorrow."

***

Helen Davenport lingered at her evening ablutions, taking an absurd amount of time and care over everything, as if she planned a glamorous evening out rather than an immediate retirement to her bed.

It had been quite a day, no doubt of it. She'd gotten an unexpected degree of pleasure out of putting aside her managerial persona for the day and reverting to a saleswoman. Her eye and her taste were what had gotten her into fashion retail in the first place. It was gratifying to confirm that they still worked as well as ever.

Nice to have that kind of raw material to work with, too. It isn't every day I get a customer like that, and carte blanche on the costs.

Helen found herself thinking about the purchaser much more than the customer. That shy smile of his was enough to melt rocks. His protectiveness over his ward was incredibly endearing. "Ward" was exactly the right word for the relationship between them. Helen had no need to ask Christine whether they'd slept together; the possibility didn't exist.

Men like that are supposed to be extinct.

Get real, Helen. He's younger than you are, and obviously unattainable.

Well, I can dream, can't I?

She smiled to herself, closed the drawer of her vanity, and went to her bed. There would be nice dreams tonight.

====

Chapter
11

Louis was washing the previous day's dishes when he heard Christine descend the stairs, enter the kitchen, and seat herself at the table.

"Good morning. Did you finish the book?"

"Yup."

He turned from the sink to reprove her. What he saw made it impossible.

"That's not standard breakfast couture."

"Huh?"

He went to stand before her, arms crossed. "Breakfast is traditionally eaten in pajamas or a robe, at least around here. Not in a white linen suit and high heels." He noticed then that she'd buttoned the jacket unnaturally high. Her hair was too tousled to have been washed or brushed. Beneath the hem of her skirt, her legs were bare. "I don't believe I heard the water running. Have you showered yet?"

"Nope."

"What have you got on under that?"

Her mouth curved in a wicked grin.

"Chris!"

"All right, I'll go shower. Give me twenty minutes before you start the eggs." Still grinning, she scampered from the room, entirely too pleased with herself and close to breaking a heel. He shook his head and returned to the sink.

She seems to get a lot of mileage out of teasing me. I suppose it's harmless enough.

She returned as promised twenty minutes later, just as he'd started frying French toast for the two of them. She was again in the white linen suit and heels, but groomed for the day, and with the normal complement of accompanying garments. She fetched plates and utensils and set the table as he finished preparing the food.

He served them both. She waited for him to sit before picking up her fork and digging in.

"So? What did you think of the book?"

She started to answer through a mouthful of food, then thought better of it.

"You can chew and swallow first. We have time."

She did as he suggested. "I didn't get the point. He set those two guys up just to shoot them down. It was awful the whole way through. Why write about something like that? Hey, wait, it was just a story, right?"

He nodded. "Just a story. But it's considered an American classic. Now you tell me: what point do you think he was trying to make?"

Her face contorted and her eyes darted back and forth. "I don't know. It was like he was saying that nothing they could do for themselves could change their situation. They were doomed."

He nodded. "Were they the only characters in the story that you could say that about?"

"No, he described Curly and his wife that way. And the other hands, too. At least they talked like that."

He nodded again. "Prisoners of fate. What qualifies a man to be a prisoner of fate, Chris? Do you think it's something you could predict about someone, if you knew the right things about him?"

"I don't know, maybe. But it would have to do with him, not with the situation. The guys in the book seemed to be trapped by a situation. That's bullshit."

"Chris!"

"Well, isn't it?"

He grimaced. "Well, yes, but there are a lot of less vulgar ways of putting it. Let's call it 'fatalistic nonsense.' "

She shrugged. "Bullshit's bullshit no matter how many words you use to say it."

He threw up his hands in mock surrender. "Have it your way."

"So what was the point?"

He sat back in his chair, hands steepled.

"What did you think of the writing?"

"It was beautiful. I cried over it a dozen times. That's part of what confused me. He's too smart to have gone for that...fatalistic nonsense."

Louis nodded. "Don't you think you might be assuming too much?"

"What do you mean?"

"A writer doesn't have to believe the things he puts in the mouths of his characters. What's important is that they believe them, and act on them."

"Oh." Her expression became thoughtful. "He could do that, couldn't he?"

Louis chuckled. "Yes, he could. He didn't even have to use his imagination for a lot of it. He was writing about a very hard time, when a lot of people had it tough and many of them had lost their hope. Stories like that one were acted out in real life all the time."

"So why did he bother to write about it?"

He leaned forward. "To capture it. To make it real to people who might never have heard about it otherwise." He reached across the table to draw a fingertip down her scarred cheek. "To reach across most of a century and make a sweet young woman cry."

"Did you cry when you read it?"

He nodded. "Like a river."

"Is that why you called it a classic?"

"Partly. It's no easy thing to do that to millions of people you'll never see."

Her expression had become grave. "I'll bet I could do it."

"Oh? How?"

"I'd tell them about the Butchers."

He nodded, rose from the table, and brought his plate to the sink. He stood there with his back to her, running water over a plate that didn't need it, for perhaps a minute.